


Oscillations

by letstalkabouttrek



Series: Wavelengths [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Natasha Romanov, Bruce Feels, Bruce Has Issues, Conversations, Dealing With Your Bullshit, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Honesty, Male-Female Friendship, Natasha Feels, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 18:52:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letstalkabouttrek/pseuds/letstalkabouttrek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha understood taking time to get your head together. It was healthy, and in their line of work, necessary. She knew what Bruce needed and supported it.</p><p>Brooding, on the other hand, was unacceptable. So it was time for a wake-up call. And they were going to have an honest conversation whether Bruce wanted to or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oscillations

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing with Natasha as the focus, and really my first time writing in-depth for this fandom. But I hated the way Bruce and Natasha were written in AoU so I felt the need to fix it. This is a fic primarily about Bruce and Natasha but it is not Bruce/Natasha; I really wanted to highlight the deep understanding that is part of their friendship.

Tony wanted to go after Bruce right away, rambling in five-syllable words about backdoors and encryption and remote satellite hacking while simultaneously trying to coordinate the Wakandan and Sokovian relief efforts, fast track the completion of the new Avengers facility, pacify a few dozen governments and agencies, repair the Tower, send flowers to Helen Cho in the hospital, yell at Fury about Hill, yell at Hill about Fury, convince Pepper that he wasn’t sending himself to an early grave, and anything else that allowed him to work instead of think. He had a look in his eyes – raw and frantic and so fundamentally _scared_ \- that Natasha hadn’t seen since he’d been dying. 

Her response was to hack his systems and lock down the Quinjet files.

Once Tony got over his initial indignant disbelief (and, really, he shouldn’t have been so offended; even with her considerable skills Natasha had only been able to get in because Friday’s extremely impressive systems had yet to be built up to the impenetrable standards of Jarvis), he unleashed 72 straight hours of exhaustion and caffeine-fueled frustration upon her.

“What, so we’re just going to abandon him? Let him waste away in whatever slum he runs to because he hates himself? Let him blame himself for everything and hide away and be _alone_ , instead of here, with us, like he should be?” There was a slight catch in his voice, barely noticeable, that Natasha didn’t miss. She made a note to call Pepper and make sure she was planning on staying at the Tower for the foreseeable future.

“He needs space to process, Tony.” Natasha looked him in the eye when she used him first name. This wasn’t business, it was two friends concerned about the welfare of another, and she had to make sure he understood that. “He went through hell, he’s hurting, and now he has to work through it.”

“Which is all the more reason he should be here, letting us help him, instead of brooding in some third world hellhole about shit that isn’t even his fault-“

“Because it’s yours.” It was a statement, not a question. 

Tony’s face shut down into a blank, shuttered look that told Natasha that she’d hit the nail on the head. He looked at her like he was trying to drill holes through her head with his eyes, and she just stared back, her own face a perfect mask of indifference. Whether he liked it or not, she knew Tony; he could take abuse and accusation and blunt, painful truth and fight it to his dying breath, but show the slightest hint of pity and the conversation was over before it started. Natasha went with the approach that kept him talking.

The staring contest – because that’s what it was, really – went on for a few lingering moments, the hot, heavy air of the workshop thick with tension. But Tony was running on empty - physically, mentally, and emotionally – and was in no shape to get into a battle of patience with a trained spy.

“ _Yes_ ,” he finally spat out, tearing away his gaze like it was causing him pain and wildly grabbing the nearest piece of tech on his workbench, fiddling with it with hands Natasha was sure would otherwise be shaking, “because it was my fault. Because I fucked up and dragged him into it by dangling the one thing he wanted right in front on him and it all went to hell and now he’s gone and it’s my. Fucking. Fault. That’s what you want to hear, right? Tony Stark finally admitting that he screwed things up too badly to fix this time?”

To punctuate his point, he threw the piece of tech down on the bench, where it sparked and sputtered, giving off a single wisp of smoke that they both watched dissipate into the air, the scent just barely reaching Natasha’s heightened perception.

“That is why we can’t go after him,” she said. “Not because it’s your fault, or mine, or anyone’s, but because as long as we feel like it is, we can’t help him. You know what happens if we try to bring him in now?” Natasha kept her voice even, but allowed her posture to relax just a fraction; a hint of vulnerability she knew wouldn’t go unnoticed. 

Slowly, Tony turned back around, meeting her eyes with ones red with tears and exhaustion. “What?” he said, his voice aggressive but barely above a whisper.

“He takes one look at us, sees that we’re a mess, and comes back whether he wants to or not. He sees that we want him to be okay so he becomes okay whether or not he actually is. He sees that we blame ourselves so he tells us it’s not our fault while taking the guilt for our guilt on his own shoulders. We try to bring him home before he’s ready, he winds up feeling trapped. I’m not willing to take that risk.”

“So we do this your way, let him run around and meditate and do yoga and probably help heartwarming orphans and adopt stray puppies and whatever other hippie do-gooder bullshit he does to find his inner Zen or whatever. Then what?”

“We wait.”

That elicited a small snort and a raised eyebrow from Tony. “That’s it?”

“We wait.” Natasha repeated. “And we hope that he trusts us and himself enough to know when it’s time to come home.”

The room was quiet, the background hum of machinery filling the air as oppressively as silence. Natasha took her eyes off of Tony for the first time and leaned against the workbench beside her, signaling that she had said her piece and was done. 

The ball was firmly in Tony’s court and she left it there. For all that she could threaten him, she knew there was no way to stop him if he didn’t change his mind. The complicated web of protections she had put around the files would only last a couple of hours against a determined Tony Stark, sleep deprived or not. This was a decision he had to make himself, so she waited, counting his too-frequent breaths as he considered her argument.

At thirty-seven, he said, “Okay.”

Natasha glanced at him, allowing the smallest hint of a smile to cross her face, before nodding in acknowledgement and turning to walk towards the door.

“You know,” Tony said when she was two steps from the exit, forcing her to pause, “if we do this, we lose the best lead we’re ever going to have. And if we’re wrong, we’re really wrong. So I hope you’re really damn sure of yourself right now.”

“I am.”

\---

Six months, Natasha decided, was fair.

For six months she refused to dwell on Bruce Banner. She didn’t ask Fury for leads or updates. She didn’t trawl the corners of the internet for mentions of big green men or kind-hearted American doctors where they shouldn’t be. She didn’t wonder where he was, how he was doing, or when he was returning. 

It wasn’t difficult; she had plenty to keep her busy. She trained, bringing together the disparate group she and Steve had gathered into something that could be called a team. She got a therapist, vetted thoroughly not only by her but by Tony, Fury, Vision, and Wanda in their own ways. She gathered intel, coordinating with Hill to try and figure out what happened to the dregs of Hydra, AIM, the Ten Rings, and a few dozen other organizations that were still out there. She visited Clint on his paternity leave and spent time with Laura and baby Nathaniel. She tested new tech for Tony and collaborated with Pepper and Steve to make sure his second retirement went better than the first. She was good.

But six months, she decided, was enough time for Bruce to get his shit together. It was time for a bit of motivation.

She filled out the paperwork requesting official leave (because they had that now, paperwork for leave from being an Avenger) and gave it to Steve, who accepted it with a knowing look. She called in Clint to be on standby as her replacement in case of a mission. She let Pepper know she would be missing their monthly lunch date and suggested maybe inviting Rhodes or Vision over to the Tower more. And then she left.

A few years before, with the various powers of SHIELD at her disposal, she would have found him in three days at the absolute maximum. Even with the comparatively lesser network provided by The Avengers, Stark Industries, and whatever Fury was calling himself and his buddies, she most likely could have had him within a week. But using those resources, however legitimate, seemed wrong – like he was once again her mission and not her friend. 

So, since she was doing this the old fashioned way, she took a month; a bit on the excessive side, but allowing for adequate time even with unforeseen complications. If she couldn’t find Bruce within that window, she would know that he really didn’t want to be found.

Natasha liked to travel light; anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary was just something weighing her down at a critical moment. She limited her supplies to the basics – two guns, a few small knives that could easily be hidden on her person, a roll of cash in various currencies, a laptop, and a satellite phone that only Steve knew the number for. Anything else could be acquired as needed.

The first few leads she followed turned out to be dead ends, Hulk sightings that were probably either completely fabricated or greatly misinterpreted. She hadn’t had high hopes of any of them turning up information, but it was a place to start, and she had very few of those.

It was oddly exhilarating, getting to use her skills at their purest level. There was nobody handing her a packet of intel to memorize, or shouting orders in her ear, or demanding updates so often she was tempted to tell them what the man next to her on the train had been eating for breakfast. It was just Natasha, her goal, and whatever information she could dig up, and it brought a sense of clarity that she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

On day twelve, she came across the first lead that showed serious promise – a two month old blog post from a Lithuanian teenager that mentioned, in passing, an odd American man who lived in the apartment next door and had set her younger sister’s broken arm, despite the fact that she was pretty sure he was a factory worker. It practically screamed Bruce Banner, and once Natasha knew where to look, the rest was startlingly easy.

It was day sixteen when she tracked him down in Gomel, living under the name David Blaine in a cramped but clean one room apartment, making a living washing dishes supplemented by the odd job fixing appliances. 

Natasha spent two days watching him, familiarizing herself with his routine and planning her approach. She subtly questioned some of his neighbors, who were of the general consensus that he had arrived in town three weeks prior, kept mostly to himself, and seemed like a generally pleasant man who said hello when he passed you in the hall and thank you when he bought his groceries. His Russian was surprisingly good, though his accent netted quite a few jokes and comments. Nobody mentioned him being a doctor.

She walked up to his door on day eighteen and knocked.

“Come in, Natasha.” Bruce’s voice, muffled by the door, was casual, as if she’d been an expected dinner guest. Which she supposed she was; while most people probably wouldn’t have noticed Natasha’s presence in the neighborhood, it was very unlikely to have slipped Bruce’s radar. She hadn’t tried very hard to hide herself, giving him one last chance to bolt. 

The fact that he was still there strengthened her resolve. At least part of him wanted to come home, a part large enough to overpower his fugitive survival instincts.

The hinges creaked slightly as she opened the door – not enough to be annoying but just enough to be noticeable, an instant warning if anyone tried to come in. It wasn’t a problem she had noticed with any other doors in the building, and the corner of her mouth ticked upward in a combination of amusement and pride. 

“I’ve got to say, this is pretty far out from you old stomping grounds, Bruce. Didn’t know you could stand it this cold.” The November chill had settled into Natasha’s bones, and she knew that for Bruce, whose body temperature ran a few degrees above normal even as himself, it would feel even colder. 

His lips pressed together in the small, not-quite-smile she had seen many times before. “I hid out in Canada a bit, mostly right after the accident. Not to mention living in New York for three years. It might not have been Russia, but I think I can handle a few sub-zero temperatures.” The teasing edge to his voice, along with the way he didn’t avert his eyes when mentioning the Hulk’s creation, was promising. 

“Besides,” he continued, “I’ve found that being a fugitive becomes rather more difficult when the whole world knows the intimate details of your entire life story. I might be an obvious American the second I open my mouth, but being able to physically blend in with the majority is useful.”

From nearly anyone else, the reference to Natasha’s info dump would have been accusatory, but from Bruce it simply felt like a statement of fact. As much as Natasha wished that there had been other options, she would never regret the choice she had made, and she knew that Bruce agreed that it has been the right one. But she could feel his gaze on her face, trying to gauge her reaction and get a sense of what he was dealing with.

She rose to the challenge, staring right back at him and using the opportunity to take in his appearance up close. He was lean, but not noticeably thinner than he had been the last time she’d seen him. His clothes were well-worn and secondhand, but clean and warm. His dark curls had been cut short, his head looking greyer than it had been as a result, and a thick beard covered the lower half of his face. The delicate-looking wire framed glasses he favored had been replaced with thick black ones. Unless one was really looking, they would never even begin to think that the man standing before her was Bruce Banner.

They stood there, staring, and the moment lingered just long enough to become awkward. Bruce broke the silence, clearing his throat and gesturing towards the battered table pushed into one corner of the room, with two mismatched and equally battered chairs next to it. “Why don’t you have a seat? I had been wondering when you were going to show up, but I’m afraid your timing is rather bad; I promised Ms. Kavalchuk downstairs I would take a look at her stove, the maintenance man has been ill and she really needs…” he realized he was rambling and trailed off, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “Anyway, it shouldn’t take more than an hour and you’re welcome to stay here, of course; it is rather cold outside.”

Natasha smiled slightly at the joke, another good sign, and nodded, sitting down in the chair closest to the corner, which gave her a full view of the small room. “Yes, I suppose it is. I’ll be fine here.”

Bruce nodded in acknowledgement and started towards the door, hesitating slightly, as if he thought he should say something more, before shaking his head and continuing. The hinges creaked as he left.

Once the sound of his footsteps disappeared from her hearing, she shrugged off her coat and draped it across the back of her chair, removing a small knife from the inside pocket and twirling it absently in her fingers. She glanced around the room, taking note of the few belongings – a couple of battered paperbacks, a leather bound journal she was certain would be full of diagrams and equations that fewer than ten people on the planet could understand, a potted plant sitting under the window, and a duffle bag that was still mostly full.

She resolutely did not follow him, did not sneak out the window to go see if “Ms. Kavalchuk” actually meant “the nearest bus station”. Trusting more people than she could count on one hand was still a fairly new experience for her, but she knew she could trust her instincts.

Natasha waited.

\---

Forty-seven minutes later, the creak of the hinges informed her that Bruce had returned. 

There was dust on his clothes and a streak of dirt on his forehead, but he was sporting one of his soft, genuine smiles, the kind Natasha generally associated with children, small animals, and world peace. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he said, as if he was the one running late and she hadn’t shown up unannounced at his doorstep. “Would you like some tea?”

Natasha allowed herself a smile, both at the ridiculous nature of Bruce’s hospitality and the prospect of a hot cup of tea in the not-quite-warm apartment. “That sounds nice.”

Bruce didn’t respond, instead letting the room fall into the comfortable silence they both preferred as he put the kettle on and washed his hands and face in the kitchen sink. He moved slowly as he took two mugs that had seen better days down from the cabinet and deliberated over his teas, even though from what Natasha could see there were only two options. It felt like one of the calm, early mornings at the Tower, when the two of them had often been the only ones up and would share the kitchen without saying a word.

She waited, giving him an opportunity to to speak as he set down a steaming mug in front of her and slid into the remaining chair, but he remained quiet, obviously expecting her to begin the conversation.  
“I think it’s time for you to come home.” Natasha had never been one to waste words, except when her cover required it, in which case they weren’t actually wasted. She figured she might as well cut straight to the point. 

Bruce’s face twisted into a wry smile that reminded her almost painfully of the man she had met in Kolkata. “Which home would that be, exactly? Whatever hidden base the Avengers are bunking down in these days?”

“If you want. If not, there are always other options.”

“Like what?”

Natasha forced herself to suppress her sigh, but still rolled her eyes. “Like setting you back up in the Tower – Tony got out, he’s there, the two of you can play in Science Wonderland together with Pepper as your adult supervision. Like giving you a solid cover identity and sending you to whatever town you want with actual resources and a way to contact us. Like building a cabin in the middle of the woods with whatever equipment you need and letting you play mad scientist hermit to your heart’s content. There are plenty of options here and you’re just as aware of that as I am so why don’t we cut the bullshit and talk about what the actual problem is.”

The trace of Bruce’s smile disappeared, and Natasha could tell that he was wringing his hands under the table. “And then what? If I tell you my reasons and explain everything and the end result is still that I want to stay here, will you accept that?” His voice was soft, but in a way she knew was forced; she could hear the edges of bitterness seeping through his harmless, mild-mannered mask. 

“Look at me,” she said, waiting until he lifted his head and met her eyes to continue. “I am not here on a mission. No one told me to come, no one is giving me orders, no one is expecting you. I’m your friend, not your keeper, and the only reason that I’m here is because I want what’s best for you. And I think you already know that this isn’t it regardless of what you’ve been telling yourself.”

He continued to stare at her for a moment, his face a portrait of weariness that made him look older than his years, before sighing. “Do you mind if it’s a long story?”

“Not at all.”

Bruce shifted his gaze downward again (secretly, Natasha wondered when the last time he had maintained eye contact with anyone for longer than 30 seconds), fiddled with his glasses, and took a deep breath. “So, I was sixteen years old when Chernobyl happened, and at the time people really had no idea what was going on. But the details came out eventually and… well, let’s just say it was one of those things that loomed over nuclear physics as a field. It was like the atom bomb, a reminder of the sickening amount of power we were dealing with.

“The years after, though, when the effects kept showing up, all the cancers and birth defects, everything that stemmed from the terrifying mutagenic potential of radiation… we’re in a city that got a decent amount of fallout; there are plenty of people here whose lives or families were affected in some way: loved ones who died, children who were never born or barely lived, homes that had to be abandoned. And that was honestly harder for me to hear about, worse than the sheer devastation of a meltdown.”

He paused, blowing steam from his tea and glancing back up at Natasha, whose eyes had never moved from his face. “Anyway, when I signed onto Project Resilience, I thought that I could help prevent things like that from happening again. I don’t know what Ross told people, or Fury for that matter, but that’s what I was trying to do – protect people from radiation. And I was arrogant, I definitely was arrogant, and just a bit desperate, and had something to prove and so I decided to test it on myself. I knew it was a risk but I figured it was a calculated one, one that would ultimately help the greater good.”

A small laugh escaped his lips, equal parts genuine and bitter. “Obviously, I miscalculated.

“After Wakanda, I figured I had just made the same mistake over again. I had thought I could balance the risk, let the Other Guy be an Avenger and save the world even though I hated the mere thought of having to become him most of the time, and somewhere I had screwed up and made an error and innocent people paid the price. Hell, even as myself I somehow wound up helping to create another monster, the one who started it all. I wanted to get out, cut my losses on the amount of suffering I caused, and you seemed inclined to hand me an opportunity to do so.” 

Natasha sipped her tea, giving him time to gather his thoughts and go on. After about thirty seconds of nothing, it became clear that he needed prompting. “Hence your desire to get the hell out of Sokovia.”  
The self-deprecating smile returned to Bruce’s face. “It was not, admittedly, my finest moment. I knew at the time that it was somewhat of a selfish decision, even a cowardly one, as much as I tried to rationalize it. But I knew I had to make a choice and I thought I was making one I could live with, and then…” he trailed off.

“And then I made the choice for you.” There was no dancing around what Bruce was obviously uncomfortable referencing. Natasha didn’t regret it.

“Yes.” Bruce let out another small sigh, running his hands over his shorn hair. “And the thing that scares me about that is that, in hindsight, I have absolutely no issues with it. My control, or the pieces of it that I can have, is precious to me, in many ways the most important thing I have. You know that, and you understand it, and you still elected to strip that control away from me, and very soon after it had already been forcibly taken. Don’t get me wrong, it was the right decision, but it was still a violation of trust. There should be some part of me that feels that, but there isn’t. I trust you just as much as I did before.”

“How much is that?” she asked.

“Almost completely,” he said without hesitation. “I’m not sure I can ever trust completely, I’m not even sure if I had the ability even before the accident, but as much as I can trust someone, I trust you. And the others as well.”

There was a raw edge creeping into Bruce’s voice, and Natasha could tell that this conversation was wearing him down. He was such a closed-off person, someone to whom repression was second nature and deflection instinct, that being so honest was always emotionally exhausting. Natasha could empathize; she was the same way, and she figured it was time for her to hold up her end of the conversation.

“In Sokovia, you told me that I’d done enough. And that’s a very tempting idea, to me. I’ve learned to live with the things I’ve done, accept them as something I can’t change and move on, maybe try to offset them by working for the side of good. But I also know that there’s never such a thing as enough; the blood that’s on my hands is going to stay there regardless of how many times I save the world. If you try to compare the pain both of us have caused, the fact of the matter is that you don’t even come close.”

Bruce opened his mouth to protest, but Natasha shut him down with a glare. “You had your turn, let me have mine. There are parts of my life, large parts, that I cannot put together. I have bits and pieces, but no coherence. All I know is that for my entire life I have been the product of other people’s decisions. With SHIELD, I thought I was making an informed choice for once, that I knew what I was getting into, and then it turns out that there was another puppet master trying to pull my strings.

“I can live with the fact that I’m a killer, a liar. That’s something I was made into, but it’s also something I can choose what to do with. The problem is that I can never be sure what constitutes choice; I’ll never be certain that the decisions I make aren’t a product of programming or manipulation. What happened in Wakanda, what she did to my head, reminded me of that. And I wanted to prove to myself that I was free, that I could still get out if I wanted.”

She paused, sipping her tea. It wasn’t her first time expressing these sentiments – most of them were the product of long conversations with either her therapist, Clint, or Steve – but trying to present them in a neat, coherent package was nearly impossible. “I’m no one’s definition of a hero. I’m an Avenger because of my skills, but I will never be the world’s first choice as a role model. That’s not an issue, but the expectation that comes with the title, that I _should_ be something better than I am, is difficult. I started to think that maybe I was just trapping myself by putting myself next to an ideal I could never become.

“You offered absolution. You don’t even know a fraction of the things I’ve done, and what you do know isn’t pleasant, and you still can’t bring yourself to judge me. And that’s a compelling fantasy, the ultimate escapism. But it’s just running away from the real issues.”

The last statement was perhaps a bit pointed, but Natasha didn’t care. She knew Bruce understood what she was saying, but the question now was whether or not he would listen.

They sat in silence, sipping their tea. Natasha could see the gears turning in Bruce’s head, the way he was weighing each of his options and trying to come to a decision. When they had both finished their drinks, he wordlessly got up to take the empty mugs over to the sink, rising and drying them before returning to the table.

“I’m not ready to be an Avenger right now,” he said, “but if I’m there and you need me, I’m always going to go fight, even if I don’t want to. And I’m scared of that.”

“And so you remove yourself from the situation so you don’t have to make that call.” Bruce’s face flashed with guilt, but Natasha continued. “It’s a tough decision, but we all have had to make tough decisions. You need to ask yourself how much you’re willing to give up so you don’t have to make it.”

She took a deliberate look around the room, her eyes pointing out the blank white walls and lonely, thin mattress in the opposite corner. As much as Bruce isolated himself, Natasha knew how much he hated being alone. 

Bruce’s eyes followed hers, and she knew he was seeing the same things she was in the empty, impersonal apartment. “I think there are a lot of things I need to ask myself.”

Natasha smiled, suddenly standing up and grabbing her coat. “You’re right. And I’m giving you three days to ask them. Take them, think things through, and make a choice. If I come back and you’re gone, I’ll know what you decided.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, but before he could say another word, Natasha walked to the door, hinges creaking as she opened it. “Thank you for the tea.”

\---

Natasha took a train to Minsk, spending the next three days exploring a city she had only been to once, on an op back in 2004. There was something comforting about speaking Russian again, walking down the street and hearing the sounds of her mother tongue fill her ears.

She let herself play tourist, be a part of the living, breathing masses of the city as she visited churches and theaters and museums. She talked to strangers on the bus and made up new stories every time, of who she was, where she came from, what she was doing in the city. 

She was Valeria, taking time off of school to care for her ailing grandmother. She was Marina, coming to the city from a small rural town to take a job with her aunt. She was Hanna, looking for a fresh start after her husband had left her. 

It was freeing in a way that few things were.

On the third day she headed back to Gomel, arriving just as the sun was beginning its descent. She ate lunch at a café owned by a kind-eyed widower and strolled through the streets until it was nearly seventy-two hours after her initial departure.

Then she went back to Bruce’s apartment and knocked on the door.

“Come in, Natasha.”

Bruce sat at the battered table, full duffle bag at his feet. He was smiling ever so slightly in a way that, in contrast to just three days before, looked more relaxed than resigned. 

“I want to do this,” he began, “but I have some conditions and I need to establish them before we do anything.”

Natasha nodded. “That’s fair.” She had basically driven the same bargain with Clint, all those years before when he recruited her into SHIELD. It was basic negotiation: never assume that anything was implicitly understood, always state things outright so the other party couldn’t claim ignorance.

“First off, I’m not going to be an Avenger, not in the way I was. If the world is ending and you need a Code Green, give me a call and I’ll come, but that’s it. I’m not going to live with you, I’m not going to train with you, and I’m not going on routine missions.”

His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. Natasha had expected as much. “That’s fine. But you should, as yourself, get to know the new additions to some extent, build the implicit trust that will bleed through to the Hulk. We don’t want to call you in for an emergency and have him freak out on a teammate because he doesn’t like them. Especially Maximoff.”

She could tell he was suppressing a grimace at the mention of Wanda, and, yeah, that was going to be a somewhat awkward meeting. They had all had to force themselves through their initial wariness of her, but she had proven herself again and again. Natasha had a feeling Bruce wouldn’t really be able to hold a grudge.

“Acceptable, and admittedly necessary,” he said, fiddling with his glasses, “but they can come from your base to the Tower. That’s the second condition – I’m staying there, with Tony, if he’ll have me. If someone wants to see me, they can come there, at least in the beginning. If you have a scientific problem you want my expertise on, I want to do it from there whenever possible. I’ll help Tony with tech and whatever else you send his way, but I want to create a clear line in my involvement with the team.”

Once again, it was nothing unexpected; Bruce before all else was a scientist, and Tony was one of the very few people that could keep up with him. Natasha knew that he missed being able to do real research, and had figured he’d set up shop at the Tower again. It would be good for him, and for Tony, who had obviously been missing his lab partner in the past few months.

“I had assumed as much. Anything else?”

“One last thing. I know that there has been a lot of talk concerning the Hulk since Wakanda, and there are… let’s just say _interested parties_ calling for my containment.” The reference to General Ross was obvious, the man had been making a fuss through every channel, official and unofficial, to get Bruce put in a ‘secure facility’. “The team doesn’t have much official backing anymore, and Tony’s just a private citizen. If there’s anyone coming after me that could jeopardize your standing or put any of you in danger, you tell me and let me make the call as to what to do. I’m not saying that I’d automatically leave, or not let you try to help, but I need complete honesty – no hiding things because you think I might get spooked.”

“I won’t promise not to try to change your mind if you make a stupid, self-sacrificing choice,” Natasha said. She understood Bruce’s need for honesty, and was always planning to give him as much, but also knew that he made bad decisions when others were at stake.

He chuckled. “And I wouldn’t expect you to. I just need to know all the variables.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.” Bruce stood, picking his bag up off the floor. “So, how are we getting out of here?”

“Well, one of two options is that I could call Steve and have him, very discreetly, send a jet.”

“And the other option?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Natasha smirked. “We do this the fun way.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. If I keep writing this series Bruce/Natasha would probably be endgame, but it will take several stories to get there - their relationship is one that really needs time to develop. The next installment planned is focused on Tony both during the six months and after Bruce's homecoming and explores his friendship with Bruce and the personal aftermath of AoU for him.


End file.
